


In The Wardroom

by howelleheir



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Cardassian Anatomy, Choking, Cock Worship, Hair-pulling, M/M, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Size Difference, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 05:17:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14610207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howelleheir/pseuds/howelleheir
Summary: He really should have realized sooner that a Cardassian might take hostility for courtship.[Missing scene from "A Time To Stand".]





	In The Wardroom

Of all the species Weyoun had ever dealt with, of every people he'd lived among in all his iterations, he had never found one so infuriating as the Cardassians. Damar, with his arrogance, his defiance, his utter refusal to cooperate with any effort Weyoun made to keep order on the station, was especially adept at getting a rise out of him, making him break his composure and raise his voice.

“I find him useful,” said Dukat on one such occasion as the wardroom door shut behind Damar, the barest shade of an apology in his voice.  
“In the future,” Weyoun began, still trembling with fury, “it might be prudent for you to include me in all decisions relating to station policy.”

He took a steadying breath, in the span of which he did all the usual calculations of diplomacy -- those and Dukat's darkening eyes told him that he needed to get his temper in check, _now,_ or risk their somewhat tenuous rapport.

“Now, what about the wormhole?” He continued, leaving just enough edge in his voice to impart the gravity of the situation and to satisfy the petty streak the Cardassians seemed to have brought out in him. “You assured me that you would be able to dismantle the minefield within a month. That was _two_ months ago.”  
“Well, I admit the work is proceeding more slowly than expected,” said Dukat. “But as you know, these are not ordinary mines. Every time we deactivate or destroy one of them, its neighbour replicates a new one.”

And just as quickly as Weyoun had calmed his anger, Dukat's pathetic excuses fed it like kindling, forcing his voice low and quiet with the effort of restraint as he spoke.

“We have to take down that minefield and reopen the wormhole.”

“And we will,” Dukat said, almost flippantly, as he took a seat at the table. “But there's no need for panic. We are winning the war.”

Weyoun felt his face getting hotter, heard blood rushing louder in his ears the longer Dukat spoke. His patronizing tone -- the way he dismissed their most pressing concern as if it were an afterthought -- was testing Weyoun's patience well past where its breaking point should have been.

“For the moment, yes,” he said, advancing on Dukat, knowing he was pushing into dangerous territory. “But to defeat the Federation, we're going to need reinforcements and new supplies of ketracel-white. Soon.”

Dukat stood suddenly, drawing himself up as if to demonstrate his intimidating stature. “Weyoun, I said I will deal with the minefield,” he said, his voice frighteningly even. “And I will.”

They stood for a moment, eyes locked in silent challenge. One of them had to back down, and in spite of the rage swelling in his chest, Weyoun knew it had to be him.

He gave a cold, thin smile and, not trusting himself to speak, made a soft noise that still somehow said, _we shall see._ He felt Dukat's eyes on him as he made for the door and sped up a pace, half out of indignation, half out of fear.

Just before the door’s sensor could detect him, Dukat caught him by the arm and in one disconcertingly _practiced_ motion, spun him around, clapped a hand to the locking mechanism, and shoved him into the door.

Weyoun was winded by the blow and his heart leapt into his throat. In political maneuvering, he had the upper hand, but with Dukat pinning him down in a room well out of earshot of any help, he was hopelessly outmatched. If Dukat decided to kill him, that would be that.

“Please,” he gasped, grasping for the right words to diffuse the situation, to make Dukat think about what he was doing and the consequences of harming a favored subject of the Dominion, but nothing more would come.

The smile that spread across Dukat's face was alarming as he gripped Weyoun's jaw hard, the hand that held him to the door sliding down to his waist.

_Oh._

He really should have realized sooner that a Cardassian might take hostility for courtship. In an instant, he replayed every argument, every exchange of barbs since this assignment had begun, and suddenly saw the signs he'd missed before -- how Dukat had warmed to him the more he'd let the ingratiating facade of diplomacy slip, returning his aggression in kind, but simultaneously growing more affectionate, more protective. The ways in which their dynamic, though equally competitive, differed from Weyoun and Damar's ongoing feud.

It was easy, in retrospect, to see how the situation had boiled over. All that tension, months of what, to Dukat, had seemed like increasingly brazen sexual advances -- and never in front of anyone but their inner circle, which he had taken for a different sort of discretion -- and finally, they had ended up alone in the wardroom, Weyoun flushed and breathless, seeming to _dare_ Dukat to make his move, and when he’d made it, Weyoun had _begged_. From his perspective, the chase had simply come to an end, and this was its natural outcome.

While his mind had been idle, his body had not -- treacherous thing that it was, it had responded to Dukat's touch with an arched back and fingers that slipped under his armor to play at the soft fabric of his undershirt and the mosaic-like texture of the flesh underneath -- and although he knew he should put a stop to this immediately, his disdain for Dukat and his entire species wasn't enough to outweigh his fascination for the exotic.

As Dukat pulled his head back by the hair and worked wet lips and sharp teeth over his throat, the normally-uncomfortable temperature of the station quickly became _unbearable._ Weyoun stripped off his coat and shirt, and shivered at the sudden presence of cold armor against his skin.

He didn't have to endure it more than a moment; Dukat made quick work of shedding the armor and undershirt with one hand, while the other spanned the width of Weyoun's lower back, drawing him in until they were pressed close at the hips.

He had seen a Cardassian's lower anatomy on more than one occasion -- early in the war, the cadavers and live specimens at the xenobiology lab on Kurill IV, and more recently, on Terok Nor’s security feeds -- but _feeling_ it was a different experience entirely, even through what remained of their clothing.

Driven by equal measures of desire and curiosity, he pulled open the fly of Dukat's uniform and slipped a hand between fabric and skin, running a finger along each side of the ridge that circled the rim of his vent. He was in the earliest stages of arousal, just slightly swollen with a few drops of slick fluid collecting on its innermost edge. That changed quickly with Weyoun's touch -- the ridge dilating, suddenly thicker and more pronounced as a muscle underneath half-tensed and pushed the head of his cock through it. Captivated by the process, Weyoun sank to his knees for a better view. The glossy, dusk-blue head was bisected by a firm barb of cartilage that faded to a nodular ridge set into the translucent, ghostly-white shaft. Weyoun teased at it with the pad of his thumb until its full length emerged to the twin bulbs of rough, muscular flesh at its root.

He was less concerned with Dukat's pleasure than his own fascination as he slid both hands over the surface, experimenting with how each texture felt under his fingertips, his palms, the backs of his knuckles. Although the types of stimulation that solicited low sighs and growls _were_ somehow more gratifying.

He yelped when Dukat gave a sharp tug at his hair, pulling him in close to bump his cock against one cheek, and then the other, a glistening trail of bitter precome smearing across Weyoun's lips inbetween. With a slight shift in his grip, he pressed the bulge of his vent into Weyoun's mouth and groaned when it opened against him in a gasp.

Weyoun traced the ridge with his tongue, dragging it over the soft scales before dipping into the seam between the bulbs. His weak sense of taste could still pick out the faint salt-copper that was strongest there, and grew stronger with each firm stroke. He raised his eyes to appraise Dukat's reaction -- this was somewhat unfamiliar territory, after all, and everything he'd done so far had been educated guesswork. The moment their eyes met, Dukat hauled him up by the back of the neck, swiping a thumb over his swollen lips before trapping them in a crushing kiss, hands roaming his body and grabbing at fistfulls of flesh with bruising pressure.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he murmured, barely breaking the kiss, his voice thick with desire.

A peculiar pang shot through Weyoun's core at the question, reminding him that his interest in this encounter had long since ceased to be even vaguely academic as an all-too-eager, _“Yes,”_ slipped past his lips.

Dukat half-dragged him across the room, pulling off the last few scraps of clothing between them along the way and leaning back into the nearest windowsill, a puzzled frown spreading across his face as he finally took a moment to look at Weyoun's relatively featureless body, the mental arithmetic of how to proceed apparent in his face.

Weyoun laughed softly and climbed into his lap, shins resting on the narrow ledge. With one hand, he braced his weight against the glass, and with the other, guided Dukat inside him, a pained hiss escaping him as the slope of the sill brought him down too fast.

He hovered motionless, his head resting heavily on Dukat's shoulder, and breathed deeply, bearing down against the stretch with a low groan until his body finally gave way and the harsh burn was drowned out by a deeper fullness and a haze of endorphins.

Dukat was mercifully still; even the slightest movement sent a shuddering contraction through him, and each contraction spurred another, turning his body into an echo-chamber, reverberating with ecstasy that verged on agony.

His overstimulated nerves were slow to calm as Dukat's palms soothed over his back, but after a long moment, he could relax, and his breath steadied. He sank downward with a whimper, fingers clenching into Dukat's hair. He could feel every tiny, involuntary movement Dukat made -- every tensed muscle, every breath, the curious soft rumble in his chest on every exhale, the quickening beat of his heart behind the armor of his breastbone -- coursing through him like bolts of electricity. It was intense, overwhelming, but no longer painful.

Slowly, cautiously, he started to move. Just a shallow, experimental roll of his hips. The friction it created was startling, but welcome. As he picked up the pace, Dukat returned the motion in kind, gripping his waist and sliding deeper inside him.

Weyoun stifled his cries into Dukat's shoulder, driving himself rhythmically downward on some archaic instinct, breath stuttering as the sensation began to shift into something sharper, tight and focused. He pressed his palms to Dukat's chest for leverage, sweeping a thumb over the little valley in the center and the intersecting ridges that bloomed out from it, aching need only growing the more he sought to satisfy it. He tried to bite back a moan, but as he felt Dukat's thighs tense beneath him, he dissolved into breathless, half-coherent pleas. Grip tightening, Dukat held him still by the hips, overpowering his desperate struggle for friction, his cock pulsing and filling him with a rush of heat.

Weyoun's body gave a few fluttering contractions. His hands grappled for something -- _anything_ \-- to hold him steady, and settled on Dukat's throat. Although he grasped Weyoun's wrists with a warning growl, he didn't force them away.

For a few seconds, Weyoun didn't even _breathe._ The tension in his body was too great to allow for any movement but a small tremor that ran down his limbs.

He gasped raggedly as the pressure suddenly snapped, and climax tore through him with staggering force. The grind of his hips against Dukat's only seemed to prolong it, to bring on wave after wave that wracked his body, harsh shouts ripping at his throat.

He curled in on himself as the last of it faded, falling heavily against Dukat's chest, his shaking limbs no longer capable of bearing his weight, and rode out each startling aftershock with a sharp exhale.

When it was finally possible for him to open his eyes, he caught his reflection in the glass -- flushed cheeks, swollen lips, tousled hair, eyes dazed and heavy-lidded.

The sight repulsed him.

He pulled away, grimacing at the too-sudden withdrawal and the hollow ache that followed, and stumbled to the door where he'd left his clothes. He pulled them on as quickly as he could manage.

 _“You're_ certainly in a hurry,” Dukat remarked.

Weyoun's jaw tightened as he rediscovered the annoyance he'd felt earlier. “Well,” he said, a cheerful note in his voice that didn't quite reach his face, “there _is_ work to be done.”

He tensed as Dukat took him by the shoulders and searched his face with a strangely serious expression. He was silent and still for a moment, nearly unblinking. Carefully, he ran his hands through Weyoun's hair, smoothing out the errant strands before trailing his fingertips along his ear and down his jaw. They came to rest underneath his chin, and tipped it up into the dim blueish light from above.

“Yes, there is,” he said, a smile just beginning to spread over his lips as he leaned down for a brief kiss. “And I look forward to it.”


End file.
